


The Deeper Roads

by wargoddess



Series: The OTHER Other Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, F/M, Frottage, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directly referencing Tanukiham's "The Other Hawke", and speculating on what would've happened if -- after their night together and the ugly morning after -- Carver had gone on the Deep Roads mission and become a Grey Warden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deeper Roads

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Other Hawke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/411741) by [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham). 



> You don't need to read "The One You Feed" for this one, since obviously that story follows Carver down the Templar path. But you *should* read it, if you haven't, because Tanukiham's stuff is fucking awesome.

     _It meant something to me._

     The words echo and ache in his mind for days afterward.  In the darker hours Fenris sits in his mansion, a bottle in his lap and his fingers curled 'round its neck like

     _he was hard, so hard,_ for me _, and oh the sounds he made when I touched him, he was so beautiful offering himself to me, wanting me_

     like fingers 'round a bottle, because that is all Fenris deserves to hold.  And when he rises and the room sways and the loathing comes and he throws the bottle across the room, he cannot help but wonder if the heart makes a similar sound when it shatters, or if the echoes will ever fade to silence.

#

     Fenris learns the next day that Carver has gone off to the Deep Roads with his brother.  In the Hanged Man Isabela laughs over the scene, which she apparently witnessed, and it does sound hilarious:  Carver, hungover and ill, being dragged along by a furious Hawke and smirking Anders, all while Varric visibly takes notes on Hawke's more creative imprecations -- doubtless to be used in the story that will make the rounds upon their return.

     And would that story reveal, Fenris wonders, the reason for young Hawke's overindulgence before an important mission?  Probably not; where both brothers appear in Varric's tales, Varric invariably centers the tale on only the elder.  Fenris cannot imagine Carver ever telling anyone what happened, anyhow.  Carver isn't the type to share his feelings, not until they grow so powerful that he blurts them in a rush, stammering and blushing all the while, completely oblivious as every word strikes and leaves bruises.

     Isabela watches Fenris as they drink the moon down, and when Merrill wanders away to ask awkward questions of Maraas the Tal-Vashoth, she leans over.  "Poor puppy looked like he'd lost his favorite bone," she says, smiling even though her gaze is direct and dagger-sharp.  "'Course, being a puppy, I imagine he'd only just _gotten_ that bone, rather recently."

     Fenris grimaces at the pirate's crudeness.  "He can get another.  _You_ certainly didn't mind throwing him one."

     "Oh ho!  Jealousy?  That is just so sweet."  She reaches across the table and dances her knife-scarred fingers over his lips, and for an incongruous moment Fenris cannot help thinking of the taste of Carver's mouth.  Can she see that, somehow?  By the grin that spreads across her face, he suspects she can.

     "I am not jealous," he says, knowing she won't believe him.

     "Of course you aren't."  She lets him go and sits back, turning up her mug of ale and then wiping the back of her hand across her mouth like a, well, a pirate.  " _Fen_ ris.  Don't be foolish.  I'll settle for each of you alone if I must, but what I _really_ want is both of you _together_ , and that'll only happen when the two of you finally work things out."  She winks, and this is not the first time Fenris feels grateful that his blushes cannot be seen.  "I gave him a few lessons, is all -- and if you must know, they were _mostly_ on how to beard the wild wolf in his Hightown lair."  She grins at whatever look is on Fenris' face.  "I must admit, he did a better job of it once I got him thinking about you."

     He doesn't know what to think of this.  "He was certainly -- _prepared_ ," he says, uneasily.  The bottle of oil is still sitting on the floor of his bedroom, where he left it after _pounding Carver's arse into the mattress_ oh Maker the feel of him, the taste of him, the sounds he'd made.

     "Well, yes.  He didn't know much about how things go between men, see."  Isabela shrugs and swigs more of that disgusting ale, not noticing or caring that Fenris stares at her in shock.  "That Garrett; what's an older brother _for_ if not to tell you all the things no one else will?  Anyhow, I suppose Puppy did something wrong?  Zigged when he should've zagged, that sort of thing?"

     He had been perfect.  "No," Fenris murmurs.

     "Pushed too hard?  Gave you too much to handle?"  Isabela really has a schoolboy's sense of humor.

     "No."

     There is a pause.  Fenris makes himself focus on Merrill across the room, who has somehow gotten the Tal-Vashoth to smile.  Blood magic, surely.  Then Isabela sets down her mug and glares at him, all leering pretense gone.  "What, then?"

     "I..."  Oh Maker the hope in Carver's eyes, the longing of him, the way he'd gripped Fenris' arm while confessing his feelings in his half-articulate way.  Not that Fenris is any better.  "I told him it was a mistake."

     There are moments when it is very, very clear that Isabela is a killer.  It's nothing overt.  Just her stillness.  Anyone who knows her notices, because she is so constantly in motion.  "And was it?"

     _It was a mistake to tell him it was a mistake._   He feels that now, deeply, painfully.  This is literal; he _aches_ , in that place within him which he had begun to set aside for Carver.  How frightening to realize such a place existed!  But it is worse, far worse, to feel emptiness there now.

     "No," is all he says.

     "Men," Isabela mutters, but she sighs and shakes her head as she says it, so Fenris thinks she will probably let him live.  For now. 

     Then she falls silent, and Merrill comes back and babbles happily about how very _interesting_ Maraas is, and Fenris hopes she is not stupid enough to try and have sex with a kossith because no elf, not even a blood mage, deserves that kind of death.

     When Carver returns, he resolves, they will talk.

#

     But Carver does not return.

#

     More than a year later, Hawke -- looking better than he has in all the time since the disastrous trip into the Deep Roads -- tells them he's gotten a letter from his brother.  Carver is a Grey Warden now, and he sounds well.  Better than well; happy.  "Good," Hawke concludes, smiling to himself as he looks into his ale, and the abomination looks on and smiles as well; it would be sickening if Fenris could bring himself to care.  "I don't think he's been happy once since Bethany died."

     Fenris can think of one time.

     He waits, and hopes, even though it is foolish and he would not be able to read the thing even if it came... but no letter arrives for him.

#

     Time passes, and wounds stop bleeding even if they do not completely close, and it is almost a foregone thing that Isabela ends up in his bed whenever she is not off searching for treasures.  Fenris finds her a remarkably soothing lover.  There is a knowing in her gaze which helps him feel less mutilated and shameworthy when he is naked before her; there is a deftness to her touch which steers his thoughts away from pain and fear.  He does not love her, nor she him, and that is well.  It is comfort he needs these days, not fresh wounds.

     He worries about real wounds during the Qunari attack, because he has grown to like freedom and he has no wish to lose his to either death or the Qun.  Sebastian is grim beside him as they run through the streets of Lowtown.  The Qunari attack on the Chantry -- a small group, barely a threat but for that the Templars were occupied elsewhere -- has been thwarted, and now Sebastian hopes to talk the elves of the Alienage out of rebellion.  Fenris thinks this is foolishness, but Sebastian is his friend and Fenris has lost too many friends to foolishness to let him go alone.

     It's too late; elves run armed through the streets, their unpredictable savagery a perfect match for the Qunari's small numbers and cold discipline.  Fenris has only just managed to convince Sebastian to turn back when the sounds of a major clash rise from Two-Alley Court -- Hawke's old neighborhood, back when he was just a penniless immigrant.  Hawke's uncle is a canny old grifter who surely has had the sense to go hide in his cellar -- or at the Rose -- by now.  It is merely nostalgia which makes Fenris pause.

     "Fenris?"  Sebastian.  Fenris nods to acknowledge the query, but he is looking down the alley, watching as a Qunari squadron battles warriors in strange uniforms.  The strangers are outnumbered, but they fight like demons.  The fingers of his sword-hand itch until he finally unhitches the blade and grips its hilt.

     "Go on without me," Fenris murmurs.  "The Grand Cleric needs you.  I'll be along later."

     Sebastian does not argue.  "You will be careful, won't you?"

     Fenris walks forward and does not answer.

     He does not think before joining fray on the side of the strangers.  He does his best fighting without thinking.  The Qunari have a sten, which complicates matters until Fenris blurs under his guard and stabs him through the gut.  But the sten is still moving, still swinging.  Fenris cannot get his sword free in time.  He sees death coming and regrets.  Then someone comes from behind to parry the blow

     _familiar, those movements are so familiar, still too large but he has gotten better, can it really be so_?

     which buys Fenris time to kick the Qunari away and lop his head off.  He starts to turn to his benefactor but before he can do so there is the sickening crackle of magic and its sickening burn along his skin and a massive ball of lighting forms between him and _Carver_ , yes it is truly Carver --

     The blast scatters everyone standing in every direction and topples a chunk of a nearby building.  When Fenris struggles upright and blinks away blurred vision, he sees the saarebaas dead beneath the rubble -- stupid, even for a mage -- and bodies littering the court.  One of them, which moves feebly as he stumbles over to it, groans in a familiar way.

     "Does he live?"

     Fenris looks up to see the dark-haired man -- the apparent leader of the Wardens -- peering at him through a gap in the rubble.  There's too much to climb over easily.  They're lucky the whole building didn't come down.

     Carver is half conscious, eyes open but glazed and unseeing when Fenris gingerly rolls him over.  No open wounds.  His face is all over blood, though, and a nearby stone the size of a melon nearby seems to be the culprit.  "He lives," Fenris calls, "but he needs healing."

     The man sighs in frustration.  "We cannot wait for him.  I thank you, friend, for your aid; if you would, please do what you can for him.  He will know where we have gone."

     _What?_ But they're gone.  The Warden way is not one of honor or loyalty, only victory at all costs.

     Damn it.

     Fenris fishes in his pockets and finds a potion to pour down Carver's throat.  Then he wrestles Carver to his feet and half-drags, half-walks him to Gamlen's house.  The door is locked, but Fenris guesses Gamlen will be too cheap to buy bars or a metal door-frame, and kicks at it; sure enough, it opens on the third blow.  He gets Carver to the lower of the two bunk beds in the back room, then he goes back to shove furniture in front of the house's door.  That will not hold it if the Qunari come but may at least keep out looters.  When he returns to the bedroom, something inside him clenches as he sees that Carver is sitting up.

     "Who..."  There's blood in Carver's eyes.  Still dazed, he wipes at his face ineffectually; his hands are gauntleted.  Fenris comes to his side and helps him pull them off.  He pulls off his own gauntlets and this yanks him back to a day in the rain, so long ago that he has all but forgotten it, something about handsome men being immune to water...

     Water.  "Hold," Fenris says, and he hurries -- no.  He does not hurry.  He merely _goes_ to Gamlen's kitchen and fetches a basin and cloths, which he brings back to Carver's side and uses to wipe his face mostly clean of blood.

     By the time Carver's eyes are clear, he is staring at Fenris.  And Fenris is suddenly, acutely, intensely aware that he has not seen Carver since --

     _How could I have forgotten how blue his eyes are?_

     He clears his throat, gruffly and unnecessarily.

     "Are you well?"  Fenris asks. Carver's head wound is still bleeding sluggishly, though the potion seems to have staved off a major concussion.  Fenris puts the cloth down to have something to do with his hands.  Carver does not answer, so he speaks more to fill the silence.  "There was a building collapse.  The debris..."  And now he falters because Carver is frowning.

     "I'll be all right," Carver says, softly.  He puts his hand to his head, wincing.  "You?"

     "Fine."  Then there is a horrible moment of silence, because Fenris can think of nothing else to say.  Or too many things, really.  _I'm sorry I hurt you and I should have gone with you into the Deep Roads_ even though that probably would have meant both of them getting blighted and dying or joining the Wardens but also _I have thought of you every day_ which would only sound inane even if it's true, and a bit of _have you thought of me_ which he does not want to know, because the answer will hurt no matter what Carver says.  So he says nothing, and the silence stretches on until Carver sighs.

     "It's good to see you again," Carver says.  There is something heavy and resigned in his voice that makes Fenris feel almost ill.  He sounds _older_ , young Carver, the little Hawke who was never little.  It's been only three years, but perhaps for a Grey Warden that is an age of the world.  It seems wrong to hear that weight, that weariness, in so young a voice.

     "Yes, I... yes."  Fenris manages the words, a minor miracle.  "I never -- " _thought to see you again_ "...yes."

     "Shit."  Carver runs a hand through his hair, smearing blood through it carelessly.  "Feels like old times again.  First I see my brother, then the damned Qunari jump me in an alley, and now you."  He shakes his head ruefully, while Fenris realizes with some chagrin that Carver has lumped him in with _the brother he hates_ and _the enemy that tried to kill him_.  "I warned Stroud about coming here, but we had no choice -- "  And all at once he goes tense.  "Oh.  Oh, _fuck_.  Stroud -- "

     "Your commander is well," Fenris says quickly, though it feels like it takes a long time to say because irrational jealousy is thick in his mouth and it weighs down his tongue.  "The street is blocked; you were separated from them.  They said they could not stay."

     "I'll have to catch up, then."  Carver stands abruptly -- or tries to.  Halfway up he makes a surprised sound and nearly topples forward; Fenris rises quickly to catch him and push him back down.

     "You are not well."

     Carver shakes his head, then blanches as this apparently brings back a ghost of the concussion.  "There's no time for this.  I have duties -- "

     "You cannot do them with a cracked skull."  Fenris stands and feels his pockets, but he has no injury kits.  He has ingredients enough to make one, though, so he sits down on the floor beside the bed to do so.  Carver groans in frustration, but he does not attempt to stand again.

     Preparing the kit takes only a few moments.  Fenris concentrates on the tasks involved, hearing Isabela's voice in the back of his mind as he completes each step --

     _That's right, add the crushed elfroot to the mushroom, never the other way around or you'll make poison gas, don't ask me why it works that way do I look like a bloody scholar, if you don't say something to him I will twist your pretty ears and make a bracelet of them._

     Good old Isabela.

     "I have... I am pleased to see you, as well," he manages, pressing two deathroot seeds together until they make a single drop of oil, which he adds to the paste in his palm.  He's got nothing else, no flasks, so palm it is.  Hard to do this one-handed, but while he does it he does not have to look at those eyes.  "Your brother..."  But no, he does not want to talk about _that_ Hawke.  "The Grey Wardens seem to suit you."

     "They do."  It's hard to feel jealous of that soft confirmation, and all the warmth and confidence that seems to underlie it.  Fenris _is_ glad, it _is_ good that Carver has found something to give his life meaning, even if that something means he can never have a life or lovers or, or... a life.  "You should consider it, actually.  Though the Joining..."  Now there's unease in Carver's voice.  "Well.  I don't _recommend_ it to anyone."

     Fenris nods.  Everyone hears the rumors.  The Wardens are so hush-hush about the initiation process that of course people think it must be deadly.  Carver has survived it, though, of course, because Carver has always been strong.

     "Here," Fenris says, holding his hand forward when the paste is done.  "My apologies for the, er, presentation."

     Carver laughs, not like the way he used to laugh -- too soft and restrained -- but enough to ease the knot in Fenris' belly a little.  "I've had worse."  He scoops the mess from Fenris' hand with his fingers and licks it off, sucking the last.  Fenris has to look away from this.  But after a moment Carver twitches and exhales in relief.  "Ah, a strong mix.  I feel better already.  Thank you."

     Fenris nods.  And then, because he knows that if he does not do this Carver will _leave_ and there will be no other _chance,_ he says, "I did not know that you had never been with a man before."

     This falls into silence, during which Fenris realizes what he has said and wonders why in the Maker's name it came out of his mouth.

     "...Fucking hell," says Carver.  Fenris still can't look at him.  "Are we really going to talk about this now?  Fucking _hell_ , Fenris."

      It was the wrong thing to say.  He tries again, tries to explain his error.  "I would have done things differently -- "

     " _No_."  Carver stands up, easily because the injury kit has done its work, and quickly because he is furious.  He walks toward the door and Fenris shudders all over because this is _worse_ , he does not want it to end like _this_ , even though there is nothing to end and there's been nothing for three years now.  But Carver stops at the door, his back to Fenris, his shoulders and fists tight.  "We're not doing this."

     "I never meant -- "

     "No, I said.  I don't sodding want to hear it!"  He only raises his voice a little, but Gamlen's spare room is small; the snarl echoes.  "All that shit is done, Fenris.  That was another me and another life and it's _over_."

     Well.  That's clear, at least.  Fenris sits on the floor where Carver has left him, and he has only himself to blame.

     But silence falls.  When he forces himself to look up at Carver's back, it occurs to him that if Carver really didn't want to talk, he could just leave.  So Fenris pulls himself to his feet, bracing himself for any other blows Carver chooses to throw.  Fenris deserves them all.

     "Just tell me one thing."  Carver is breathing hard, but his voice is cold, tight, controlled.  Fenris waits; it seems to take a long time.  "Did you mean it?  What you said?  What you, about it being a, a _mistake_?"

     "No.  I regret saying that."  Every day.  Every minute.  "It was not a mistake, and I am _sorry_."

     Carver stiffens more, if that is possible -- but then he turns back.  He glares at Fenris, and Fenris tries to meet his gaze because Carver needs to know the truth, and if Fenris cannot find sufficient words maybe he can _feel_ them somehow and maybe Carver can _know_ it somehow.  That is not how these things usually work, but Fenris can hope.

     Bizarrely, Carver suddenly laughs and leans back against the door.  "Kirkwall.  I feel like a kid all over again.  Maker, how I hate this town."

     Fenris has no idea what to say to that, so he says nothing as Carver laughs again and rubs a hand over his face. He's forgotten his gauntlets; they're still on the bed where Fenris put them.  With his hand still over his mouth he looks at Fenris again there is something in his eyes that is... actually, Fenris doesn't know what that is.  He's never seen Carver like this.  He looks disturbingly like the abomination for a moment.  Is that something the Wardens do, invest demons in people?  That is a rumor too.  But no, the abomination only looks like this when --

     "There's no time to hold grudges, in the Wardens," Carver says through his fingers, still looking at him _that way_ with _those eyes_.  "You can't put off apologies or whatever 'til later, because there might not be a later.  If you want some -- someone -- you have to..."  He looks away abruptly, and yes, _here_ is the Carver that Fenris remembers, rising pink from the collar of his mail shirt to flush his cheeks.  "Maker, what's wrong with me?"

     It takes Fenris a moment to understand.  He is still distracted by the way Carver looked at him, like the abomination --

     -- like the way the abomination looks at Garrett --

     -- and then Fenris registers what Carver has said.  Oh.

     _Oh_.

     He does not know what to feel.  But.  He does not like being here, all the way across the room, while Carver is saying these things.  Licking his lips, Fenris takes a careful step forward.  Carver is still looking at some old cheese; he does not react.  Fenris steps closer, and then Carver's head snaps around and Fenris is pinned by those eyes.

     Say something.

     He breathes.  Takes another breath.

     "Nothing is wrong with you."  Then he prompts, softly because it is hard to get the words out at all let alone audibly, "If you want someone, you have to...?"

     Carver almost smiles, and there is such pain in this expression that Fenris cannot help himself.  He lifts a hand toward Carver's face.  Carver twitches and Fenris freezes, but then Carver takes his wrist.  It's the hand Fenris used to mix the injury medicine; there's still a smear of the paste in his palm.

     Carver looks at Fenris again.  Then, his eyes never shifting away, he pulls the hand to his mouth and licks Fenris' palm.  Two quick strokes.

     Two strokes and Fenris is so hard that he thinks he will grow faint from the speed with which his blood has redirected itself.

     "Hey," Carver whispers.  His hand tightens on Fenris' wrist, tugging just a little.  Fenris lets himself be drawn closer, closer still, until his gorget presses against the gryphon emblem on Carver's breastplate.

     "Yes?"

     "I wondered."

     When in the Old Gods' names did Carver learn to do _that_ with his voice?  "Mmm?"

     Carver has to steel himself.  Fenris can see that, Carver's effort to make himself speak the things that are so plain on his face, and it is a pure balm to know that he is still wanted -- and oh _how_ he is wanted.  And how Fenris wants in turn.  Carver licks his lips.  "What would you have done differently?  If you'd known.  About me."

     There are several ways that Fenris can answer.  He chooses one.

     But Carver chooses it too, maybe because he is a Warden now and Wardens do not waste time, or maybe just because the bed is so handy.  That makes it easy for both of them to tumble to the floor and shed only enough armor to bare the important bits.  Then for awhile there is only Carver's cock in his mouth, Carver's mouth on his cock.  And oh, Carver must have done this with _someone_ to do it so well but that does not matter because dear Maker Fenris thinks he's going to die of it.  They're wearing too many clothes.  Carver curses and sits up and struggles out of the biggest plates of his armor while Fenris sheds the spikiest bits of his, and then Fenris falls on him and remembers suddenly how much more erotic Carver's kisses were than his cock or his hands or anything else.  It's fire.  He's on fire.  He's going to die burning, from a kiss.

     He wants to throw oil on the fire but they don't have any.  In the end all he can do is reach between them with the hand that's still a little slick with injury medicine and spit.  When he strokes them together Carver makes a _sound_ that takes him right back to that night, and when Carver shoves a fist into his mouth to stifle his own whimpers Fenris remembers and breathes into his ear, "Don't.  Let me hear you."  Carver's eyes fly wide; he remembers too.  He wanted then and he wants now and it is beautiful, all this sweet perfect flesh that Fenris never imagined he could have again, those bright, bright eyes that Fenris never wants to stop looking into, this _thrust and grind and pressure and heat_ \--

     Carver bucks and shouts unintelligibly when he comes.  Fenris forgets himself and curses in Arcanum and Qunari.  Then he can do nothing but lie there on Carver's heaving chest, shuddering with aftershocks and waiting for the world to grow still.

      There's silence again, but this time it's good.  Nothing but breath, and sweat, and Carver.  He knows it's coming, that it has to end soon, but that knowledge does not make the long seconds any less sweet.

     "This is shit," Carver says.  That's the beginning of the end.

     "Yes."  But Fenris pushes himself up anyhow, and shifts off to the side so Carver can get up.  He cannot quite help letting his fingers trail over Carver's face, his collarbone, his hand, his belly, his cock; any bit of Carver's flesh he can reach.  His fingers come away from the last sticky and he licks them, tasting Carver and himself and injury medicine.  Carver watches him do this and shudders with almost palpable wanting.

     But he still sits up, and pushes to his feet, and starts to get dressed again.

     Fenris is numb as he watches this.  Carver wipes himself clean with the bloody cloth Fenris used to stanch his head, after rinsing it a bit in the basin of water; then he tucks himself back inside his shorts and hitches his codpiece back into place.  It occurs to Fenris that Carver is skilled at this, sex with armor on, probably for the same reasons that Fenris is skilled at it, but he does not want to think about any of this right now.  He does not want to think at all, ever again.

     Carver sighs once he's done, keeping his back to Fenris.  "I have to go."

     "I know."

     "I'm sorry."

     "So am I."  It is better than before, at least.  This time there will be no anger between them.  Only regret. 

     As if that's better.

     And Carver is still standing there.  One of his gauntleted hands flexes.  Open, closed. 

     Open.  "Anders left the Wardens," he murmurs, almost to himself.

     Fenris feels his breath catch in his throat.  Oh, that would be --

     No.  No.  He is a fool.  This is what happened before, the last time they were together.  Fenris thought only of himself then, and everything went wrong.

     He licks his lips.  "Anyone can leave anything, yes."

     Carver's hand tightens into a fist.  " _I_ don't.  Leave anything.  Not without good reason."

     Fenris closes his eyes.  He leans against the wall and feels its roughness, breathes the faint bitter stink that is mildewed mortar and Gamlen's unique odor, the thicker smells of sex and Carver and himself.  It takes everything he has to say, "Am I enough of a reason?"

     It takes everything he has to wait for Carver's answer. 

     "No.  Yes."  Sound of metal joints flexing open.  "I'm doing this _for_...  Not... I didn't think I was, but... I am."  He takes a deep breath, and there's that sound again.  He makes a fist.  "It's my job to make the world safer for everyone."

     For everyone?

     "For... for you."

     All the knots in Fenris' gut let go at once.

     "Then you must go."  He is empty after saying this.  That's it; nothing left. One sentence used it all up.  But the words are also true; this is Carver's calling.  Fenris cannot take it from him.

     Carver sighs, heavily.  "Yeah..."  He rubs the back of his head.  Fenris sees the moment when the decision becomes final.  Carver's big broad shoulders square and push back.  He bends to pick up his gauntlets.  "Yeah."

     Fenris forces himself to uncurl, to get up.  He's half-dressed, mussed, covered in drying sweat and other things.  But he wants... something.  He doesn't know.  To say goodbye, maybe.

     Carver turns and suddenly Fenris is against the wall, hard, pinned there, and he almost panics because he has never liked this.  But then Carver's mouth finds his and the taste of Carver fills him and in that moment Fenris forgets fear.

     Then Fenris is free, and Carver is gone, striding into the living room and shoving the furniture aside and walking out of the house without looking back.

#

     Fenris leaves Gamlen a few coins for his trouble.  Then he heads back to Hightown, where people are cheering and dancing in the streets because Garrett has killed the Arishok and the city is saved.  Isabela finds him much later in his mansion, after he has drunk nearly all the wine cellar's contents down to the dregs.

#

     Another year passes.  Kirkwall can be a very cold place in a house with holes through its roof.

#

     The assassination attempt comes out of nowhere.  Fenris happens to be nearby when Carta dwarves come boiling out of the alleys and off the rooftops, so he comes and helps Hawke kill them.  That's when Varric tells them he's talked to some people who know some people who've heard some things, and he thinks he knows where these assassins are coming from.  Garrett asks, with his lopsided smile, whether Fenris is busy.  Danarius is dead now; Fenris is a freer man than he has ever been in his life.  He can do whatever he pleases without fear.  He has often wondered why he continues to run around after this two-faced apostate barbarian. 

     Maybe because he has nothing better to do.  So he goes with Hawke into the Vimmark Wasteland.  But when they reach the point Varric's contacts told him about, there's nothing there except a shattered supply caravan, the caravanners' bodies, and Carver Hawke, looking more disgruntled than usual.  Assassins in the Warden barracks, he says, after which the two brothers exchange warm if cautious greetings.  Hawke's trying harder not to be an ass to the only family he has left.  Carver's just being himself -- or rather, he's being the cooler, stronger, quieter man he's become since joining the Wardens.  That's better than the angry boy he used to be, so it helps.

     They look at each other, Carver, Fenris.  Fenris nods a greeting; Carver returns it.  They've brought Isabela this time and she practically takes notes, looking from one to the other and snickering periodically.  Hawke, who's usually oblivious where it comes to his brother, begins to follow Isabela's gaze and scowl.  Then crazed dwarves drop down on them from the cliffs, and there is no more time or room for awkwardness.

     It's a hard slog -- harder as they get underground and delve into this mysterious prison the Wardens have built in the middle of nowhere.  The darkspawn are harder to fight than Fenris remembers them being, or maybe Fenris is getting soft.  The demons are worse.  They camp in chambers filled with rotting cots and supplies, burning the remnants of the chambers' occupants for warmth.  Bone is hard to burn.  But at least some of the chambers have heavy doors that can be locked and barred, and dwarven-made walls that will stand 'til the world ends; that's as safe as anything can be, down here.

     So that first night when Fenris goes off to use the latrine, Carver casually comes with him, and they end up panting and jerking each other off against one of the old fallen Warden shields.  The next night Fenris brings sword oil and amid the bones of the dead there is biting and sucking and finally, finally after so long, good hard fucking, Fenris riding Carver's beautiful cock until both of them completely lose control.  The third night Carver shows Fenris everything he's learned in the Wardens, including the apparent fact that cock tastes like ambrosia and semen like sweet cream.  The next night Fenris holds him down and strokes him slowly, deliberately tormenting.  Only when Carver breaks and begs -- _make me, please make me Fenris, please_ \-- does Fenris let him, _make_ him, come. 

     They try to be discreet at first but eventually stop bothering.  Carver says this is how it is in the Wardens; they find pleasure where they can and no one begrudges them.  Fenris thinks this is a good healthy attitude to keep, down here in the dark.  He does not care if the darkspawn hear his or Carver's cries.  Let them listen and take notes.

     Isabela finds it all hilarious.  Garrett takes to glowering at Fenris at every opportunity, and making snide remarks at his brother about self-control and bad taste.  Carver ignores his brother -- which Garrett _hates_ , because it means Carver truly no longer gives a shit what he thinks -- and trades such lewd banter with Isabela that he actually manages to make her blush.  (Once. Briefly.) 

     And in the night-times, between life-and-death battles, he and Fenris try to fuck each other through the floor.

     But.  Is this all?  Fenris tries not to think about it when they're on the move, because monsters hide in every shadow of this place and he needs to stay alert... but he thinks about it anyway.  Is this all they are to be to one another?  A quick grope in the dark, desire satisfied but for the niggling absence of _something more_?  They do not talk, after.  Fenris feels the yawning vacuum of that.  Before they were ever lovers they were friends -- friends who talked.  Yet what is there to say, really?  When this is over, Carver will go away again.  Best to keep things purely physical.  Just a bit of fun.

     It is not what he wants, but it is better than nothing, so he savors it while he can.

     Something happens.  It's in the middle of a fight with some revenants summoned by a rogue Warden.  Fenris usually dodges revenant-strikes; the creatures hit too damn hard.  Carver isn't as fast, so he tries to parry.  The first blow knocks him off-balance; on the second, the revenant's sword hits his plated arm so hard that Fenris hears the snap of the bones from across the room.

     Then _he_ is across the room, feinting, stabbing, drawing the thing's attention away while Carver curses and Garrett drags him back.  Between Fenris and Isabela they finish the revenant, and by the time they do Garrett has cast a regeneration spell that's not doing much.  Even fucking the abomination hasn't made Garrett a better-than-mediocre healer, but something is better than nothing.

     "I'll be fine," Carver says.  This is after they've found a secure chamber in which to make camp, and set him up on a pallet of ancient rags.  His face is white, his lips pressed together when he isn't speaking.  He made no sound while Garrett set the bones, but he did grey out for awhile.  Now he's almost cheerful.  "Bones knitted by morning; it's a Warden thing.  Just... shit, someone give me some liquor."  They all laugh, weakly.  Isabela offers her own personal flask.

     And of course it is Fenris who sits with him that night, after the pain proves too great to allow him to sleep.  "Talk to me," Carver pleads.  "Keep my mind off this."

     Talking.  There is danger here.  Fenris tries to keep the conversation simple, inane.  "Do you think Isabela and Garrett will sleep together?"

     Carver laughs weakly.  "I think they did once, a long time ago, before I got with her.  If Isabela gets bored enough, they will again."

     "He is with the abomination now.  Has been for some time."

     "So that's happening."  Carver glances off toward the room where the rest of their party is trying to sleep, then grimaces as the movement jostles his sling-bound arm.  "I suppose that was inevitable, way they were looking at each other back then.  I thought _they'd_ do this, go at it like we are, that first trip into the Deep Roads, but they just kept mooning at each other.  Give me that."  Fenris gives him Isabela's flask, and he takes a deep pull from it.

     Fenris does not want to talk about Garrett or Anders or lovers who stay and become a part of one's life.  As he gropes for something else to say, though, Carver sighs beside him, slumping as the drink pinks his cheeks.  "Maybe if you'd come with me that first trip, I wouldn't have gotten the Blight."  Then he laughs.  "Or maybe you'd've been the one to put me out of my misery.  Who knows?"

     Fenris looks at him, uneasy because he has thought those exact words on more than one occasion.  "Perhaps you should've simply remained in Kirkwall."

     Carver makes a disparaging sound.  He's flushed but not quite drunk; his Warden's metabolism burns through the liquor almost as fast as he drinks it.  "There was nothing for me in Kirkwall.  If I'd stayed, I'd have _been_ nothing."

     _I would have apologized if you'd stayed,_ Fenris thinks.  Then Carver would have had something.  But that is foolishness too; what is being the lover of a penniless ex-slave who squats in a derelict mansion, compared to the noble purpose of the Grey Wardens?  Nothing.

     Fenris takes a swig from the flask himself, though it tastes like caramelized acid and makes him crave good red wine.

     "I was careless, that first time down here," Carver murmurs after awhile.  His words have slurred a bit, either from the drink or exhaustion.  Fenris glances at him and he looks away.    "Distracted.  Kept... kept thinking about what happened.  With you, I mean.  I wondered... what I'd done wrong."

     This is pointless.  "You did nothing wrong."

     "I know that now.  But I was... just a stupid kid back then.  Half out of my head over you and I didn't even know it."

     Fenris had known.

     "Fenris?  What happened?  When you decided everything was... a mistake."

     So much danger here.  But Carver deserves an answer, so Fenris fumbles through trying to explain.  He does not remember the things that make him hate being on his back, or being approached from behind; he does not know why he tried to purge those not-quite-memories in Carver's flesh.  Isabela has helped him with much of this, but it's still hard to talk about.

     Carver is silent when he's done.  Then:  "And you thought I wanted just... something physical."

     "At the time, yes.  Isabela enlightened me, after."

     Carver laughs at that.  "With her fist?"

     It pulls a matching laugh from Fenris.  "Very nearly."

     This is good.  Like old times.  And that is _not_ good because it makes Fenris remember why he liked Carver, likes him, wanted him, wants him --

     "I forgot how much I like your laugh," Carver murmurs, his thoughts obviously running along the same lines.  The fingers of his good hand brush the back of Fenris', perhaps coaxing Fenris to give him the flask back, perhaps just craving his touch.  "Always sounds so _personal_."

     Maybe it is.  Fenris does not laugh for just anyone.  Carver and Isabela are pretty much it.

     "Don't," Carver whispers.  "Fenris, don't do this.  Don't... shit.  I know what you're doing.  Me too -- I'm also -- but...  Maker, I don't want this."

     Fenris looks down at him and he is almost undone by those eyes again.  The want in them -- and more than want.  Oh, no, no, they cannot do this, it is not _safe_.

     "This," _is foolish_ , he starts to say, but Carver seems to think Fenris needs an explanation for his own "this" instead.  So Carver hooks his fingers into Fenris' gorget and pulls, hard, and Fenris could pull away but he does not.  They kiss again, as they have done dozens of times in the past few days, but this time it is different.  Sweeter, hotter -- that might just be Carver's fever -- gentler.  It is the kiss Fenris remembers from that first night, when he asked Carver _are you sure_ and Carver said _of course I'm fucking sure_ and then _I'll let you do whatever you want_ as if he had no idea what those words would do to Fenris.  As if he had no idea how perfect he was.

     Fenris tries to show him, now, how perfect he _is_.  He tries to kiss that into Carver's mouth, push it down his throat; he bites it into Carver's lips and jaw.  Carver is trembling, breathing hard; the fingers of his good hand pluck at Fenris' skin wherever they find it.  But there can be only this, Carver is too injured for more, so Fenris forces himself to stop.  It's hard.  He rests his forehead against Carver's and they breathe together awhile.

     "I'm yours," Carver whispers.  He's shaking.

     It's wrong.  It's all so wrong.  But Fenris cannot bring himself to lie as he should. 

     He draws in a shuddering breath and replies, "And I am yours."

#

     Carver's arm is healed by morning.  Two days later they kill the ancient magister and start back toward the surface.  Fenris and Carver do not touch each other again for the rest of the trip.  It isn't just fun anymore.

     Afterward Carver leaves, returning to his duty.  Fenris and the others go back to Kirkwall.

#

     It's Hawke who comes to confront him.  Fenris isn't expecting that; he'd thought it would be Isabela, or even Merrill, because the blood mage has noticed that Fenris is drinking more than usual lately and leaving his house less.  But it's Garrett who walks into the room and stands there like an interloper, like the wrong Hawke he is, and Fenris cannot even muster his usual distaste for the man because he is too empty inside.

     "Go to Ansburg," Garrett snaps.  "That's where Carver's stationed, he said.  Ask to join the damn Wardens.  When you're not brooding endlessly, you're the best warrior I've ever seen; they'd be fools not to take you."

     Does Garrett think Fenris has never thought of this?  "I did not spend years escaping slavery only to chain myself to _darkspawn_ ," he growls, reaching for the bottle in front of him.  The wine is shit.  He finished off the good wine already.  Shit is better than nothing.

     He is not expecting Garrett to lunge across the room and grab the front of his shirt, hauling him out of his chair and throwing him onto the floor.  That's because he still thinks of Garrett as a kind of magister, and magisters in Tevinter would never do something so grotesquely physical.  Even Circle mages wouldn't, but Garrett is a barbarian apostate and Fenris supposes that's how they do things.  Garrett even punches him in the face when Fenris fails to fight back.  It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it would if Carver had been the Hawke doing the punching, but it's enough to split Fenris' lip.  Impressive.

     "Now you listen to me."  Garrett is in his face, all a-bristle with that idiotic beard, and there is a scent about him that is magic and a hint of blood, which should really worry Fenris more than it does.  "Isabela tells me this, this _thing_ between you and my brother has been going on for years.  Years!  I should kill you for that alone.  Should've done it back when you first touched him..."

     But then he falters, looking away and grinding his teeth so hard that Fenris can hear them rattle, because of course Garrett did not notice at the time.  In those days Garrett treated Carver as little more than an extension of himself -- a poorly-valued extension at that.  He is as much to blame as Fenris for what Carver has become.

     _What Carver has become?_   But Carver is magnificent, powerful, an instrument of terrible retribution for his sister and all those who suffered in Ferelden's Blight.  Nothing to be ashamed of, everything to be proud of.  So why are both of them here on the floor, mourning as if they have lost him?

     Because they have.  Fenris laughs a little, and Garrett flinches back as if he's gone mad.

     Making a sound of disgust, Garrett gets off him.  Fenris doesn't bother to rise, though he does push himself up on one elbow.  He didn't drop the bottle when Garrett threw him out of the chair, though it did spill a bit.  There's plenty left.  He drinks half in three big swallows.

     "You don't deserve him."  Garrett is glaring down at him.  The air is thick with magic and Fenris really should be afraid.  Ah, well.  "I can't imagine what he sees in you.  But he's my baby brother and, and -- "  He looks away.  There are some problems magic cannot solve; both of them know this intimately.  "Shit, Fenris.  You fucking _coward_."

     He leaves.  Fenris picks himself up, then finishes off that bottle and two more, though each pull makes his split lip burn something awful.  When he crawls into bed and passes out, he is unsurprised to wake later with Isabela beside him.  So many holes in his house, it's always easy for her to get in.

     "Thinking about someone?"  Her hand is under the sheets.  She's opened his pants to caress him.  He's not thinking about anyone; that's what the wine was for.  His cock's just hard because cocks get hard sometimes.

     "I drank all the wine," he says, by way of greeting.

     "And left none for me, you wretch, I see.  It's a testament to your fine elven strength that this even works."  She pats his cock, which throbs obligingly, or maybe he needs to urinate.  "Close your eyes."

     He's still drunk enough that he obeys.  Her fingers are long and strong, marvelously deft, and he drifts along on a warm plateau of arousal that's not enough to make him come, yet not uncomfortable.  Isabela will probably roll onto him and gratify herself in awhile.  He does not mind that she uses him this way because she gives as well as takes.  He loves her for that, inasmuch as she allows.

     Then she leans close, her breasts pressing soft and warm against his arm, and he feels her breath tickle his ear.  "Carver," she whispers, and he stiffens in more ways than one.  "Shh, shh.  Don't think.  Just listen."  Her fingers continue to work, steady, soothing, and very slowly his muscles unclench.  "This is Carver's hand."

     That's wrong.  Carver's hand is much bigger, his fingers stronger, his calluses rougher.  Fenris knows because he remembers the stroke and grip of Carver's hand, the hard tug that follows it.  And the little tremor in between, because even this arouses Carver to the point of fever, even just touching Fenris, which is humbling and unbelievably exciting.  His cock twitches and Isabela purrs, her teeth grazing his pointed ear-tip.

     "These are Carver's fingers.  Somewhere, wherever he is, he's touching himself like this, with those fingers, and he's thinking about you while he does it." 

     And now Fenris cannot help but think of Carver lying somewhere, alone in the small but private room he has surely earned for himself as the finest warrior in the Ansburg Warden Keep.  He is naked amid rough sheets and fur blankets; he is long and muscled and freshly scarred here and there, as Fenris saw in the Vimmarks; he is breathing hard and stretching his head back as his big strong hand works his big hard cock.  Fenris feels certain that Carver would do it slowly, stretching out his own pleasure, losing himself not just in sensation but in the sweetness of imagining other hands on his skin.  Fenris puts a hand down and tangles his fingers in Isabela's to slow her down, to show her how, and then it is perfect, steady and hard and oh yes, yes, just like that.

     "He's thinking about _your_ hands," Isabela says, and he barely hears her voice, just the words.  She is the narrator for the tale that unfolds in his mind, this pointless tale that has no plot and only one character and hopefully a very particular kind of climax.  "He's wishing you were there.  He's biting his lip and pulling _just so_ , gripping _so tight_ , ah, it's almost like fucking you.  Almost that good."

     Fenris is throbbing all over, one great big nerve.  He can almost feel Carver's cock inside him, slick and so hard, he can't get enough air.  He shifts restlessly to throw his own head back, panting through his mouth and fighting not to thrust against her hand.  Oh, Maker.  Oh, Maker.

     "He's thinking about you biting him.  You like doing that, don't you?  He tastes so good, you could just eat him up.  You could swallow him whole."

     Fenris opens his mouth and bares his teeth and for just a moment there is the pressure of flesh against them, the taste of salt and that peculiar musk which is Carver when he is hungry for sex, hungry for _Fenris_ ; this is the taste of Carver when he is opening his mouth to take Fenris in because he _loves_ doing that, maybe he just loves sucking cock in general but there is a _particular_ relish to the way he devours Fenris, suck and circle, lick and nibble, lips and tongue as deft as clever fingers --

     "These are his fingers.  He wants to put them in you, wants yours in him, wants all of you in all of him, wants to climb inside you and never leave.  He wants you _forever_ , Fenris -- "

     He can't stop.  _Venhedis et falia, e meum fasta_ \--  His body draws taut.  He is gasping, gripping the sheets with his free hand; he's not going to come, he's going to _explode_.

     " -- and you can have him.  He's yours, after all.  You're his."

     He's gone.  The orgasm bows his back and locks every muscle; he hovers there, mouth open, his head throbbing like a wound.  He can't breathe.  Can't think.  He says nothing because there are no words.  He does not cry out because no scream could be loud enough.  All he can do is

     die

     and then be done.

     Some while later Fenris remembers how to breathe. 

     Sometime after that he becomes aware of Isabela drawing little circles in the mess on his abdomen.  When he is finally able to turn to her, she smiles and lifts a finger to lick, her eyes gleaming like she's had a treat.  He hopes she doesn't want anything more from him tonight.  He's got nothing.

     But she says, instead:  "I think that's it between us, sweet thing."

     Hard to find words.  "What?"

     "When just the memory of someone does _that_ to you, that's who you need to be with."  She sighs and leans over to kiss him, which he does reflexively, his thoughts still blurry.  "Only a matter of time before you start hating me for not being him, and all that."

     "I could never hate you."  It's not even a lie.

     "Maybe not.  But you couldn't love me, either."  And even though she does not want his love, he knows this, she smiles in her wry way and he realizes maybe he's been wrong, she at least wants _the possibility of_ his love, and now they both know that is impossible.

     She slides out of bed, stretching, and as he watches her he feels a modicum of sadness.  Not much, though -- which means she's right to leave.  She deserves more.

     "I hate to say this, you know, but Garrett's right."  She dresses efficiently, then slides all her many weapons and tools into their places.  Lockpicks under the bust and the seams of each boot.  Daggers at belt and under wristbands and one tiny throwing-knife behind each ear.  Her earrings, he knows, contain an acidic poison salve.  She is magnificently deadly.

     Then he registers her words and feels scorn.  "What would Hawke know of such things?"  She tosses him a wet cloth from the basin he keeps near the bed; he sits up to clean himself.  "His lover is a spirit wearing the remnants of a man.  He didn't even _know_ about -- "  But it is impossible to say _Carver and me_ , because that implies something that does not exist, and he cannot bear the thought.  Damn her; he'd been doing a good job of not thinking until now.

     "Yes, yes, we both know Garrett is not the most perceptive man on earth.  But then, neither are you."  She turns to him.  "And it makes no sense, Fenris.  He's right here in the Free Marches!  You don't have to join the Wardens to be with him; you could just live there in town, be near enough to visit -- "

     "He could come here."  Fenris tries not to sound petulant.  He knows he's failing.

     "No, he can't.  And anyhow, the last time he offered you his heart you sort of tossed it on the ground and crushed it beneath your pretty bare heel, so it's only fair that _you_ be the one to make an effort, here, don't you think?"

     There is no fairness in love.  But he does not reply, because that would imply that he's listening, and he is _not.  Listening._

     She gestures around at the crumbling walls of the mansion.  "Don't you want... I don't know.  _More_ than this, Fenris?" 

     He does.  But he does not _merit_ more.  He is nothing, there is no value to him beyond the lyrium in his skin.  Garrett was also right to suggest that Carver deserves better than Fenris, though that did not need to be said.  It is something Fenris has always known.

     When Fenris does not answer, Isabela shakes her head.  "Well, I did my bit for Maker and Marches.  Can't make a horse drink, et cetera."  She heads for the door, she's actually going to leave through the door, in all the time he's known her she's never done that.  It makes the leaving more final.

     Then she stops at the door and looks back at him.  He braces himself for her farewell, but is completely unprepared when she says instead, "What if he dies, Fenris?"

     And then she is gone.  The question echoes. 

     What _if_ he dies? 

     _It meant something to me!_

     A Warden's life is always short.

     _No time to hold grudges._

     Fenris does not deserve something as shining and wholesome as Carver.  But how much worse would it be to lose even the _chance_ of him? He has nothing now, but would that not be _worse_ than nothing?

     _If you want some -- someone, you have to..._

     What would Carver have said, if he'd finished that statement?

     _He wants you forever, Fenris._

     And Fenris wants him. Forever.  Maker help him.

     The fire goes out eventually, but Fenris sits awake even as the room turns cold, until dawn.

#

     Things fall apart.  The stalemate does not hold.  Anders goes mad and takes the whole city with him.  Fenris does not want to stand with Hawke, he does not care if the Templars slaughter every mage in the city, but he sees what it does to the man to kill Anders.  The desolation in Hawke's face, afterward, is a familiar, bitter thing.  So he goes to Hawke's side not because he thinks Hawke is right (Hawke isn't), but because Fenris knows how it feels to betray one's own heart.

     The battle is long and brutal and full of madness; the Templars are as bad as the abomination.  In the middle of it Carver appears, saying little about whether he's gotten permission to leave the Wardens, just grimly offering his brother his sword and his life.  Family is family.  And Fenris, who has torn out his own sister's heart, sees how much this simple gesture means to Garrett.

     Carver does not look at Fenris.  Fenris understands.

     These are the hours of blood and death, and at the end they are victorious, though only just.  Kirkwall is closed to them, along with half the lands of Thedas; there are few places they can go that will be safe from the Templars.  They stand atop Sundermount, in the remains of the Dalish camp that has finally moved on, and watch the city burn.

     No one knows what to do.  Garrett is silent in his grief; Merrill watches to make certain he won't go mad.  Sebastian does too, though he stands further away, his shoulders tight with resentment.  Some part of Sebastian has not yet forgiven Hawke for loving Elthina's murderer, but that will pass.  The man's still a priest at heart.  Aveline's already checking her armor-straps and cleaning her sword; Kirkwall, and Donnic, need her.  Isabela came back to help them in the battle, but afterward she went off to secure her ship.  Fenris remembers her saying something about meeting them at the docks in Starkhaven if they decide to sail off and become pirates.  Varric sits by the fire writing letters, checking a tiny ledger that he apparently keeps in Bianca's sheath.  If Fenris knows the dwarf at all, he's probably making sure both his and Garrett's liquid assets get transferred into untraceable Tevinter accounts.  Tevinter banks are superb at money-laundering.

     Fenris waits until no one's paying attention, and then he goes up the path to the hunting campsite that Carver has claimed for himself, and where he alone stands gazing at the rest of the world, away from Kirkwall.

     "Going to get demoted for this," he says, when Fenris draws near.  His eyes are a few hundred miles away, in Ansburg probably.  "Maybe even whipped.  Got to have discipline in the ranks, especially among the officers."

     Of course he is an officer.  But Fenris does not like the idea of anyone whipping anyone.  "Must you go back?"  He knows the answer to that question already, but he still has to ask it.

     "Yeah.  I'll take my licks if I have to."  He shrugs.  "It was worth it.  The Templars in that town were all wrong."

     Fenris nods, hunkering down beside the fire that Carver has built.  The night's not cold, but his hands are, strangely.  "Will it help, with your superiors, if you bring a potential recruit back with you?"

     When Fenris looks up from the fire, Carver's face is stone, but his eyes betray him, bright and intent in the flickering light.

     "No," he says, very softly.  "Nothing will help.  And you don't count, anyway."

     "Is my sword not good enough?"

     There too:  the tell-tale flex of jaw muscles.  "I won't let you undertake the Joining.  It might kill you."

     Fenris shrugs.  He does not care about the Wardens anyway.  But --  "Will the Wardens allow me to fight at your side, without that?"

     Silence.  When Carver does not answer, Fenris sighs and rises, then moves around the fire to approach him.  Carver takes a step back, shifting into an unmistakably defensive stance, so Fenris stops.

     "Will they?" he presses.

     Carver's eyes are so blue as they search and search his face.  "I don't know."

     Fenris lifts his hands to show that he has no weapons, that he means no harm, but Carver's stance does not relax.  "Will you ask them?"

     " _You_ ask them."  So there's still a little of the obnoxious younger Carver left.  Fenris is glad to see it.

     "Then that is what I shall do," he says.  He reaches back slowly, unhitches his sword, leans it against the rock-face nearby.  He tugs off his gauntlets, tossing them down near the sword.

     Carver's eyes follow this, the gauntlets, then lock onto his bare hands.  "It took a war to change your mind?"

     "Yes.  Because I am a fool."  He says it matter-of-factly; there's no point in pretending otherwise.  Everyone's tried to tell him.  He hesitates, and then because Carver is still tense and armed and angry, Fenris detaches the spiky pauldrons of his armor.  He can kill with them; he has killed with them.  He's killed with his bare hands, too, but Carver is staring at his hands right now as if they mean something, so Fenris thinks maybe those are not a problem. 

     "Yeah," says Carver.  "You are."  He doesn't move.

     Fenris licks his lips.  He has watched Carver walk away from him so many times now. What can he do to make Carver see that he means what he says?  The problem is that he must _say_ it, and he does not have the words.  He tries anyway.  "I want..." 

     He wants too many things.  While he waffles between them, Carver sort of shakes himself and shifts stance again, scornful  this time.  "Please.  Don't pretend you want _me_."

     _But I do._   He does, more than anything.  Even if --  "You... you should be with... I should be _stronger_."  That isn't what he wants to say.  "You need someone stronger.  I am..."  A weak thing, a useless and foul thing, nothing any sane person should want in his life.  But.  "I have always wanted you, Carver."

     The words make no sense.  Carver doesn't relax, doesn't seem to hear them.  Fenris doesn't know what to _do_.  But after a moment Carver comes to him, still stiff and braced for a fight, still searching his face.  He reaches for Fenris with one gauntleted hand, and Fenris twitches because he does not like metal things coming at his face.  Carver blinks, yanks the gauntlet off, and touches him again.  His lips.  His marked chin. 

     Fenris stands.  There's something frightening in Carver's eyes.  No. Fenris has always _been frightened of_ those eyes.  He knows it now, knows this is why he has fled again and again from them, but knowing doesn't erase the past.  All Fenris can do is _stand_ , and face Carver's eyes, and not flee again.

     "You all right?"  Carver's voice is low, rough, a whisper.

     "I'm -- "  Then Fenris remembers.  Oh.  _Oh._   Is this?  He swallows.  "For now."  _Maker, yes._

     Carver nods unnecessarily.  He steps closer, sliding his hand up and knotting his fingers into Fenris' hair.  Fenris has never liked being held this way, either; it reminds him of too much that he would rather not remember. But he endures it, for this.  His skin is tingling.  Even knowing what's coming he shivers when Carver leans closer and says, "Are you _sure_?"

     Fenris wants to look away, but he doesn't.  Not this time. 

     He makes himself say, though the words feel wrong on his tongue, "Of course I'm fucking sure."

     Carver's mouth comes down on him like the mountain, like a thousand disquiet souls unleashed.  Fenris thinks he might drown in that flood of desperation; it tumbles him, he curls into it.  Then he tries to pour his own flood back.  It stops being like that first time as soon as they stop talking.  Carver pulls away only long enough to get Fenris' gorget over his head, that's not really how it's supposed to be removed but Fenris _doesn't care_ as he yanks at the buckles of Carver's armor and probably tears some of them, Carver will get in more trouble with the Wardens if he comes back with his armor all useless, Fenris doesn't care about that either.  He doesn't hear the thuds as the plates of metal hit the ground, he doesn't notice when he kicks them away himself, he doesn't think beyond the taste of Carver's mouth and the sound of rough breath and the rasp of stubble against his own smoother skin.  He notices when the armor's gone and the clothing under it, because they haven't been completely naked together for six years.  Carver's skin is hotter than he remembers.  Is that a Warden thing too?  He doesn't care.

     Then the bedroll is under him and Carver is over him and damn it there's _no oil_.  It doesn't matter.  Carver's heavy.  Fenris has never liked being pinned down either, but Carver is trembling as he does it, uttering half-phrases like "Fucking please" and so forth, and is it really so frightening when the man on top of him is begging and shaking as if he fears the world might end?  So Fenris takes Carver's mouth to stop his pleas.  He shifts his hips and puts a hand between them to bring them into line, and then they grind at each other with all the strength that two warriors can bring to the fore.  Which is considerable.  It's amazing that it doesn't hurt.  It's amazing how _good_ this feels.  It's amazing.

     "Oh fuck, Fenris, _oh fuck_ I can't stand it, please just -- "

     He wants so much.  Even with his arms around Carver, his teeth set in Carver's shoulder, his whole body jolting with every urgent flex of Carver's muscles --

     " _Harder_ ," he hisses. Carver sobs but obeys.

     -- it's not enough.  It's _not enough_ , it will never be enough, and then suddenly Carver shifts his hips and grinds just the right way and it's _too much_.  The world goes white and quakes to its foundations.  A moment later Carver is spilling onto his belly, they're spilling into each other, mixing, inseparable, and Fenris momentarily forgets his own name.  He remembers again and gasps with the fear of it, the threat of losing himself, but Carver's arms tighten around him, hard and reassuring.  "I have you," Fenris hears him gasp, and the fear goes away.

     It's done.  It's everything he needs.

#

     They scatter to the winds.  Hawke and Merrill, Isabela and Sebastian, they go elsewhere.  For everyone's safety they tell no one where.  Varric and Aveline return to Kirkwall; they've both got enough contacts and resources to protect themselves there, even against crazed Templars.  It's not the end of the Champion and his merry band, but it is the start of something new for all of them.

     The Grey Wardens aren't too angry.  Stroud's mostly just glad Carver came back at all, what with the world going to the void.  He'd like to conscript Fenris; the elf fights like a demon crossed with a warrior and sprinkled with fresh rogue.  He doesn't conscript him because he knows some things bind tighter than the Warden oath, infect the soul more powerfully than the darkspawn taint, and because he's seen that people fight harder when they've got something to fight for.  Something closer and more personal than "the world", anyway.

     Fenris doesn't like Ansburg.  The local cuisine has too much fish.  Carver has shown him where to find good wine, though -- better than anything Kirkwall had -- so perhaps the city will grow on him eventually.  Also he has to pay rent now. These are minor irritations. 

     Awakened darkspawn and the Mage-Templar war, spies and assassins and lost heroes, these too are minor.  The world is always coming apart at the seams.  He doesn't care about most of it, let it all burn, but some parts matter to him, so he will do what he must to keep those parts safe.

     Carver laughs whenever he says things like this.  "Maker, you're sodding ridiculous."  Then Carver takes his hand and draws him close, and Fenris no longer thinks of what was or might have been.  Some things, he is finally willing to acknowledge, are simply fate.

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly I just wanted to play some more with Tanukiham's fanon and write some porn. I will also admit to writing this now because "The One You Feed" has hit an emotional nadir (chapter 30 as of this writing) and I crave WAFFyness to make up for it. Except these characters are hard as fuck to make WAFFy, thanks a bunch Tanukiham. Hope I kept their characterizations close to fanonical, even though the circumstances have changed drastically. Also hope my attempt to imitate T's style actually works and doesn't fail miserably. The use of some of the dialogue/narrative phrasing from "The Other Hawke" was deliberate.


End file.
